


Bound to Nothing

by MariusAngelicaSue



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Cultist Tekhartha Zenyatta, Gen, Genji is mentioned in passing, Junkenstein's Revenge, Takes place back before Sym's rerework, They're all called by the titles from the game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 15:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16478498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariusAngelicaSue/pseuds/MariusAngelicaSue
Summary: The Archer couldn't say that he trusted the Monk. He found it strange, to be defending the King's castle once again with an omnic at his side, but the desperation called for him to put aside those worries for the sake of surviving the night. When the Monk witnessed the sacred art of the Archer's family, he wondered how it would react. Would it be frightened, in awe, or indifferent as always? He'd heard all of the responses before.That is, except for one.“You know, in my travels, I’ve met a man that wields the spirits of dragons similarly to how you do.”





	Bound to Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!!

Doctor Junkenstein had returned again, a year after they all thought he’d been defeated. 

The Archer supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by it, what with the way he was resurrected before their eyes with the help of the Witch a year ago. 

But hadn’t they killed her too? How in the world were they  _ both _ back? 

He supposed there was only way his questions could be answered. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do, his travels in the interceding year doing little for him and his journey for redemption. He remembered wondering whether it was even possible in the past couple of months, but he had no other direction to go and as such dismissed the thought. 

With all of these things in mind, the Archer quickly made his way back to Adlersbrunn the moment he’d found the crow with a note holding familiar names and places within it. 

The castle of Adlersbrunn looked no different than it had a year before. Even the damage that had been dealt on the door had been repaired in time, which was a relief for the Archer. If the Witch’s attack was as brutal as it had been the year before, they’d need the door in the best possible condition to survive the attack. 

“Hello there, good friend!” The King’s voice boomed as he saw the Archer step through the doors to the throne room. “I never expected to see one of the old four return for my aid, yet here you are! Have your travels been well?”

The Archer frowned. When he first arrived here, he was never sure how to respond to the King’s loud enthusiasm, much less his hospitality. Yet another thing that hadn’t changed. “Yes, um, thank you. Am I the only one that has responded to your call?”

“Well, um, no. There’s one other who has arrived to help, and well…” The King leaned forward, his voice quieting to a raspy whisper, and the Archer leaned closer to hear him. “It’s the Countess, from the south. I’m not entirely sure why she’s come, but she claims to be willing to help.”

The Archer raised his eyebrows in surprise, glancing over to see a strangely pale woman walking into the room. She wore a long dark cloak that covered nearly every inch of her skin, yet held tight to it at the same time, and a cap with orbs of red glass sitting on her head, seeming almost as if a spider was emerging from her hair. If he looked closely, he could see pearly fangs poking out from the edges of her lips. In her gloved hands was a large cup of wine, her posture as stiff as a board as her bright yellow eyes surveyed him. 

“You are also here at the King’s request?” Her voice spoke with a french accent. 

The Archer didn’t audibly respond to her, nodding as he stared at her with narrowed eyes. 

Noticing his glare of hostility, the Countess pursed her lips in boredom, shrugged, and turned back around to the entrance she’d come in from. “I will be in my chambers, call me when it’s time to stand guard.”

And with that, she quickly left the throne room, the echo of her clicking heels slowly becoming quieter and quieter before it was cut off by the creaking of a wooden door closing. The Archer glanced back at the King with a raised eyebrow, who could only shrug helplessly. 

“She’s made it clear she intends to fight Junkenstein and nothing else, but has not given me a reason as to why. But in times of desperation like this, I can’t exactly turn her away for that.”

The Archer frowned, turning to look at the hallway the woman in question had vanished through. “I wouldn’t recommend sleeping in the same castle as her. Or the same county, for that matter.”

“Believe me, friend,” The King gave a sad smile. “I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to.”

The King had been kind enough to provide the Archer with his own room, although it was admittedly sparse. That didn’t bother the Archer at all though, he found it to be an excellent space to practice some meditation as well as take care of his bow and make sure it was in top shape for the coming battle. 

He felt a part of himself tingle with the thought of what was coming in just a few hours. Soon, he’d be in that moment of fear and adrenaline as he fought zomnics after zomnics, seeing the Reaper rise out of the shadows and the Witch to appear in the moonlight. The King told him that the Witch of the Wilds had somehow managed to survive their battle from the previous year, and resurrected each of her minions to wreak havoc. How would this night go, would the Witch attempt to break down the door a different way, after the previous attempt failed? Or would she simply throw her servants at them a second time, expecting the result to change?

_ No. _ She was far smarter than he was giving her credit, there’d definitely be something new. She’d have learned from the previous year and improved her forces, her strategies, and her magic. Meanwhile, the Archer couldn’t say he’d made many leaps and bounds in his sharpshooting skills, or learned many new things. He was often wasting time like that, drifting from place to place to finding a sense of meaning that felt just as intangible as water slipping through one’s fingers. 

He snapped himself out of his meditation, his patience dried up, sitting up and gathering all of his things again. He couldn’t stay in this room any longer, and he quickly walked out the door, feeling a twinge of guilt at rejecting the King’s kind offer so callously. 

The Archer decided to remain in the throne room, sitting at one of the balconies and observing the action below. Eventually, a short man in strange armor arrived, who clearly seemed to know the King well. The Archer never quite caught onto his name (or at the very least didn’t bother to remember it), but the style of armor and patterns on his gear clearly showed him to be one of the Vikings up north. 

He was relatively normal, with a temper as tall as himself and a penchant for building interesting gadgets. That part made the Archer bristle a little, thinking of all the “interesting gadgets” Doctor Junkenstein liked to make, but after seeing one of the constructions for himself and the differences in design he felt far more relaxed around the Viking’s presence. 

The same couldn’t be said for the final traveler that eventually arrived at the King’s doorstep. It was just a few minutes before Junkenstein was expected to arrive, and the Archer had been gathering all of his things, thinking how they’d compensate at having so few helpers to fight off the upcoming attack, when a light rapping could be heard against the large, heavy doors to the castle. When the guards verified it as another wanderer that had come at request of the King, they obediently pushed opened the gates and the Archer caught sight of it. 

What most immediately came to him as he saw the shadow of the person in the moonlight was that it was floating. Its legs were crossed in a meditative position, its arms resting on its knees, and its feet lifted up a considerable distance off the ground. It was almost at the height of the rest of the guards, with how high up in the air it was. 

As the mysterious stranger slowly (and silently, he noted) approached the King, with the Countess and Archer at his side, the light slowly revealed his--no,  _ its _ \-- appearance. 

Strange, slithering tentacles sprouted from the stranger’s face, colored in a bright purple and green that almost seemed to glow. It was shrouded in dark purple robes covered in strange and disturbing symbols that the Archer couldn’t recognize, despite all of his travels. 

Most notable were the strange, floating orbs wrapped around the the stranger’s neck like some sort of unholy necklace, several dark green eyes embedded in each one, their pupils twitching about independent of each other as they seemed to almost survey the room they were in. 

The Archer blinked, taking a second look at the stranger, at the way the bright purple tentacles writhed in front of where its mouth should be.  _ Are those metal plates?  _ He thought with alarm, looking down at the other metal parts and gears on its body and realizing what the stranger actually was.  _ Is this another creation by that insane Doctor? _

The Archer quickly nocked an arrow in his bow, preparing to lift it and fire if a fight broke out. However, the omnic didn’t make any sort of aggressive movement, simple floating in place and waiting for someone to say something. The Archer stared intently at any possible movements it was making, preparing himself for an attack, or an explosion, or for Doctor Junkenstein to even appear at the gates. 

“Who are you?” The King’s steadfast voice quickly anchored the Archer back to the present, and he quickly rounded up all of his scrambled and panicked thoughts, taking a deep breath and stopping the shaking of his hands (had they been trembling this whole time)?

The stranger bowed its head at the King’s question. “I am a simple monk, one that came across one of your ravens and wished to help, as well as see for myself these stories you wrote within the message.”

The King raised his eyebrow, clearly just as aware of the strange Monk’s robotic nature as the Archer, and just as cautious. “You...truly wish to help defend my castle?”

The Monk bowed its head again. “Yes. I wander in search of-”

A loud crackle of thunder echoed from the outside, and the Archer was able to faintly hear a familiar maniacal laughter outside the gates that made his stomach sink. 

The King heard it too, abruptly standing up from his throne. “Damn, they’re already here?! Quickly, all of you, you must get out there! Prepare for whatever tricks the Witch of the Wilds has for the four of you, and do not give in! I believe in you!

 

~o0o~

 

The Archer’s suspicions in the Witch of the Wilds strengthening her armada were unfortunately true, as the four of them soon found out. 

He growled to himself, letting another arrow loose towards an oncoming tire, watching it fall apart to the ground. He glanced over to see the Viking and Countess both trying to keep their focus on the Summoner, who seemed to be strengthening the zomnics around her. He grunted in pain as a blue flame burst far closer to him than he’d expected, feeling it burn the edge of his leg. He barely had any time to hiss at the searing contact before he felt something move close towards his ear, and something gentle and warm settled over the injury. He looked over to see one of the strange orbs with eyes floating next to his shoulder, a faint light gently stroking against him. He looked over at the Monk, and sure enough, not only was it missing one of the orbs around its neck, a second one was gone. He glanced over to see a dark and ominous ball on the zombardier that had attacked him, just as it burst into flames and the orb quickly returned to the Monk’s shoulders. 

“Those are some strange abilities there, Monk,” The Archer called, firing another arrow. 

“The darkness of the Iris empowers me,” The Monk responded with a strangely neutral tone. 

“How can darkness possibly give someone strength?” Another zomnic was impaled with an arrow, bursting into flames. 

“Embracing the emptiness within the Iris brings freedom, and with that freedom, strength.”

The Archer hummed. “I doubt there’s any who can possible gain strength like that, aside from yourself.”

“I cannot say the same,” the Monk’s voice sounded patient. “I have met many who have gained salvation from the Iris.”

“Well, I thank you for your assistance in this battle. And the wound.”

“My pleasure.”

Seeing that the conversation wasn’t going anywhere, the Archer returned to fighting in silence. The rest of the defenders seemed comfortable in not communicating with each other, aside from the Countess, who could report the approach of tires from her vantage point. 

Despite the inherent distrust clearly woven into the group from the moment each member arrived, they were working together surprisingly well, and the Archer felt his confidence increase just slightly as time passed on, and the Summoner was finally defeated. 

That is, until the Viking decided to speak up. 

“You know, Monk, the designs of these omnics is awfully similar to your own design.” The Archer heard everyone get a little quieter at his comment. 

“Trust me, Viking, any conclusion you’re forming is completely false. It’s best if we concentrate on fighting.” The Monk’s voice was still the same calm monotone, yet somehow the Archer could sense the venom dripping from his words.  

He raised his eyebrows at the exchange, partially out of surprise of the Monk’s behavior, but also that the Viking had brought up a point that the Archer had previously forgotten. How could they be sure that he wasn’t a creation of the mad doctor? The Archer had believed that when he first approached, but now that the fighting had started he hadn’t thought of it much. 

_ But,  _ a quieter voice slowly got louder.  _ Does its origin matter at this point?  _ He was still fighting alongside them, and was a great help at that, being able to heal wounds. Perhaps he had been created by Doctor Junkenstein, before eventually deciding to defect, like a puppet cutting its own strings. 

The Archer’s mouth pressed into a thin line, not thinking about the parallels to himself, and eventually decided that the Monk was right: it would be for the best if they just focused on surviving the night.

“The Reaper is back!” The Archer heard the Viking exclaim, and cursed as he saw a familiar shadow rise from the bridge. 

He glanced around, seeing the group at a disadvantage: the Viking was desperately trying to build a new turret after the zombardiers destroyed his last one, and the zombies seemed to only increase in density, as if the Reaper was leading them himself. 

If they weren’t careful, this gate would be broken through

He growled. They were already struggling, and the Witch hadn’t even shown her face yet. 

His resolve crystallized into clarity, and he nocked another arrow, the tattoos on his arms lighting up with a blue glow. He let out his battle cry, loosing the arrow, but its volume was soon drowned out by the sound of the two roaring dragons that emerged from the arrow’s head and began ravaging through the Reaper and his small army of zomnics approaching. By the time they disappeared, the entire bridge was devoid of life, scrap metal decorating the stone like a carpet. 

“What was  _ that _ ?!” He heard the Viking exclaim, but the Archer paid him no mind, grimacing at the mess the dragons had left behind. 

They were his trump card, what he pulled out at the most desperate moments. He wondered if he’d revealed them far too soon, and another part of him worried if he’d be ready to use them again by the time the Witch came back. 

Either way, it wasn’t a good sign for things to come. 

He looked over to see the others still staring at him, expecting an answer, and the Archer resigned to just shrugging. “It is an ancient art passed down through my family.”

“Do you plan on using it more than once tonight? It would be greatly appreciated,” he heard the Countess from her vantage point. 

“I hope so,” the Archer replied, returning to his battle stance as he saw more zomnics approaching, and soon enough the area was filled with the familiar sounds of electricity and breaking metal once more. 

The Archer glanced over at the Monk again. He was the only one that hadn’t given a clear reaction to the dragons. True, he was far less capable of facial expressions than the others, but he stayed eerily quiet throughout the ordeal. The Archer supposed it was likely just the Monk being difficult to surprise. 

“You know, in my travels, I’ve met a man that wields the spirits of dragons similarly to how you do.”

The Monk’s calm tone contrasted the way his words made the Archer freeze over in shock, and he slowly turned to look at the omnic. The Monk looked pack at him, its face impassive, and the Archer narrowed his eyes. 

“That’s impossible. There’s only one other who could possibly have the spirit of a dragon, and he’s dead.”

“Killed by those fearing his power? The King mentioned you travelling often, are you afraid of a similar fate?”

“N-no…” The Archer’s voice trailed off a little, and his grip on his bow slackened a little. “I’ve been wandering after my brother’s death because I...I was the one who killed him,” his voice dropped in volume significantly at the last part, and neither the Countess nor the Viking heard. He could tell the Monk did, what with the way it tilted its head in curiosity. 

However, before the omnic could say anything, they heard a familiar voice echo through the area, and everyone’s heads snapped up. There they saw the Witch of the WIlds herself appear out of thin air, her hand raised triumphantly in the air, and in an orange glow each and every one of her allies returned with full force. 

The Archer gritted his teeth, preparing for the coming brawl. 

 

~o0o~

 

Another tire came rushing towards the gate, and with no one available to take care of it it came for the door unimpeded, the Archer just barely able to jump out of the way of the explosion. He cursed a little, seeing Junkenstein’s monster regenerate the little health they’d dealt, bullet holes closing. 

“The Witch is healing them all!” The Archer heard the Countess announce from up above. “We need to eliminate her before anyone else?”

“You’re the sharpshooter, aren’t you?!” The Viking yelled, desperately setting down another turret. “You’ve got the best angle to hit her!”

The Archer looked up to see the Countess focusing her gaze through the scope of her sniper rifle, and guessed that was exactly what she was trying to do. However, with all of her focus placed on the Witch, the Archer saw her give no reaction as the mad doctor’s monster got closer to her position. 

The Archer’s eyes widened. “Look out!” 

But it was too late. The hook sailed through the air and pulled at the legs of the Countess, dragging her down to the monster’s level. He heard a brief, bloodcurdling scream come from the woman, before it was suddenly cut off by a gunshot of the monster’s weapon, and her limp body was dropped to the stone floor. 

Everyone took a moment to stare in shock at the sight, and the Archer couldn’t help but feel his stomach fall. 

They had all thought the Countess to be immortal; the King, the Viking, perhaps the Monk, and even the Archer himself. 

It was the worst time to be proven wrong. 

The Archer immediately leapt into action as the monster turned to attack him next. He landed on the side of the castle, gripping the stone and desperately climbing up to a higher perch. 

With one person down and morale unbelievably low, the Archer couldn’t be surprised when not too long after, he saw the Viking’s body fall from the overarching bridge, the hammer clattering from his grip as he landed, and the Archer felt himself grow only more desperate. He continued to let out a stream of curses as Doctor Junkenstein’s hail of explosives forced him to leap from the slightly safer perch. 

His roll was off, and landing back down on the ground stunned him for a moment as he hit his head. He tried to recollect his senses, pushing through the throbbing in his mind, and he quickly stood back up and whirled around to face the next attacker. 

The moment his head turned he saw the Reaper right in front of him, and before he could react the wraith had dug in its shotgun into his midsection, and the Archer froze over as he heard a muffled shot and felt pain spring from his stomach. 

Warm blood dripped down from his stomach, and the Archer stumbled back in shock, landing on the wall of the castle, slowly sliding down. His hand feebly gripped onto the injury, and the Reaper silently watched with his cold mask as the Archer’s mouth opened and closed over and over. 

Eventually the Reaper grew tired of watching the Archer’s life slowly slip away, and turned to take care of the last remaining protector. 

As the Archer’s vision slowly faded to black, he distantly heard the sounds of a wooden gate crashing down, and saw a glimpse of bright light in the corner of his vision. 

 

~o0o~

 

The Archer felt nothing but cold in his superficial consciousness. The cold of the wind blowing over his skin, the cold of the stone in the eichenwalde castle, the cold emanating from the sheer silence enveloping him. 

Then he felt it. A familiar warmth seeped into his shoulder, like the warmth of a hand held just barely a centimeter away from his skin. With a groan, he slowly opened his eyes, and found himself surprised at how little light there was shining on his face. 

It was only at that moment that the Archer realized something was standing over him, blocking out the moonlight. His vision cleared, and he looked up to see a dark violet hood and glowing, neon tentacles emerging from it. 

To say the Monk looked disheveled was an understatement. His purple robes were tattered, leaving only the base of the hood and his pants left that weren’t completely ripped off. Several of his orbs were missing, and the Archer could see a spider web of cracks across one side of his face and through his eye, and some of the tentacles seemed to have been ripped off, while others were only missing a few pieces in comparison. 

The most conspicuous damage were the missing beams in his torso, and the left arm that had been completely broken off. 

However, when the Monk spoke, his voice was as neutral as ever. “How do you feel?”

The Archer squinted his eyes shut as he slowly pushed himself up the castle’s wall. “What...happened to me?”

“The Reaper gravely injured you, and Junkenstein broke into the castle.”

The Archer’s eyes snapped open, and he jerked his head around to see a gaping, dark hole in the front deck. “The...the king, the subjects…”

“Junkenstein and the others are long gone, Archer,” the Monk’s voice was abrupt, as if to try and shut down the Archer’s panic as soon as he could. “We lost.”

The Archer looked back at the Monk, glancing over his ruined state again. “How did you survive? How did we  _ both _ survive?”

The Monk looked down. “The Iris protected me when I needed it. And I...healed you.”

“What?” The Archer’s eyes widened, and he looked over at the rest of the area. He immediately regretted it, as he saw the stiff corpses lying upon their own bloodstains like carpets. “But…”

“Their deaths were not a choice of mine, Archer. You were the only one I had a chance of saving.”

The Archer turned back to look at the Monk with furrowed eyebrows, and the Monk continued. “Although, if I may be perfectly honest, I’m glad that out of all of them, you were the one to survive.”

“Didn’t like the Viking much?” 

“Do not misinterpret my words, Archer. I would have saved the Viking all the same if I had the chance.”

The Archer frowned. “Then why are you glad I’m alive?”

“Those spirit dragons you summoned. They are very familiar.”

“And I said before, it’s  _ impossible _ ,” the Archer gritted his teeth. “Anyone who could possibly do so is dead. I...made sure of that myself,” his voice dampened into a murmur at the last part.

“An act you are clearly guilty of.”

“Why would I not be? He was my brother, and I  _ murdered  _ him.” he bristled.

“And that’s what interests me the most about you, Archer,” The Monk tilted his head. “You speak amidst a group of strangers of what I assume is a very personal regret. I can tell, you are  _ very _ familiar with the Nothingness. I might even say you’ve grown comfortable with it.”

The Archer raised his eyebrow. “Does this impress you, Monk? Is it similar to you?”

“Not at all,” the omnic responded immediately. “Do not think that the way you interact with the emptiness of the Iris is at all the same to mine. 

“For you see, I  _ thrive  _ in that Nothingness,” The Monk pointed to the Archer. “You, however, seem to  _ wallow  _ in it.”

The Archer’s previously growing expression of curiosity and wonder quickly twisted into a snarl at the comment. “Is that why you brought me back to life then, Monk? To mock me?”

“I saved you because I wish to  _ help you,  _ Archer,” the Monk’s voice was increasingly peppered with impatience. “I wasn’t lying when I said I met someone similar to you. He had gazed in a similar void, and came out of it angry and violent. I’ve been helping him move past that fury, to move past that event...and forgive you.”

The Archer’s eyes widened and he stepped towards the Monk before he could stop himself. “What are you talking about?! He’s  _ alive _ ?!”

“In a physical sense, yes. But I wouldn’t say he’s ready to face you.”

The Archer leaned back, narrowing his eyes and regaining his composure, not completely sure if he should be trusting everything this omnic was telling him. Still, a small part of him clung onto that hope, that his brother truly was still alive. “Then why do you want me? To bring me to him for revenge?”

“Of course not. You yourself are a victim of that void and its crushing power, I can see that now. My student currently travels on his own, seeking peace without my guidance. However, no matter where I travel, whether alone or with him, I always find someone who’s in need of help.” The Monk held out his right hand slowly and carefully, as if he was trying to avoid startling a deer. 

“Where do you intend on taking me?” 

“To wherever our travels may lead us; perhaps we stop at a town for repairs and rest, or we find another king that requests our assistance, it does not matter. What matters is your growth.”

“And what do you seek to gain from this?”

“Simply one more who truly understands the Iris and all of its power,” the Monk hummed. “You may not ever decide to use it the way I do, but understanding is power, especially that of something as vast as the Nothingness.”

The Archer narrowed his eyes, staring down at the still outstretched hand. “My brother...you say you wish to help him?”

“He requires healing, but it is a slow process. He’s certainly not the angry spirit I first encountered, but it’s still clear his recovery is not yet complete,” the Monk tilted his head. “You remind me somewhat of my student, filled with so much anger and hatred. Oddly enough, it’s all still aimed at the same person for the both of you.”

The Archer snorted at the comment. Whoever this Monk was, he certainly had a way of reading people. “And if I decide I do not wish to join your cult?”

“Then I will not stop you from leaving me behind,” The Monk seemed to brush past the use of the Archer’s word choice. “The strongest pillars are built on persuasion, not shows of force. Keeping you against your will would only drive you further away.”

The Archer looked over the Monk once more, at the missing arm and damaged metal plating on the omnic. Even if he was fully repaired, the Archer felt confident that he could overpower a feeble Monk if he needed to.  _ Besides _ , he thought, looking at the bodies and broken gate surrounding him,  _ anyone who even somewhat knew me is dead now. There’s nothing anchoring me here, preventing me from simply drifting off again. Wandering for years has done nothing for my redemption. _

_ Perhaps,  _ he glanced at the omnic’s outstretched arm,  _ This is a chance I shouldn’t miss.  _

He grunted. “Very well,” and he took the metallic hand, wondering what would come next. 

  
  



End file.
